Dramas & Plays
![Sergi Pàmies - [object Object] author](https://res.cloudinary.com/readsomnia/image/upload/authors/a_B00455Z740.jpg)
The Art of Wearing a Trench Coat: Stories
World Literature Today: Notable Translation of the Year
A baker's dozen of intertwined stories that brilliantly evoke the ups and downs of relationships between strangers, spouses, parents, and children.
Drawing on the author's own experiences, this slim, intimate collection of thirteen stories explores myriad forms of love (and disappointment and nostalgia and panic) through a narrator who bemoans his inability to wear a trench coat well, like Humphrey Bogart and the other elegant men his mother taught him to admire. In these encounters and these endings, in these details and these feelings, a compassionate portrait of a life emerges.
Terse, droll, sometimes absurd but always lucid, Pàmies casts his gaze on the urge to write as seen through his mother's final days; on his teenage fantasy that his father was actually Jorge Semprún; and on situations such as adopting a dog to staunch a failing marriage, or a father asked to play the part of a corpse in his son's short film. In this phantasmagoria of failure and loss, Pàmies confronts us-pulling us in with his use of the second person-with the omnipresence of well-intentioned lies without which it might be impossible to ever make anyone else happy.
A baker's dozen of intertwined stories that brilliantly evoke the ups and downs of relationships between strangers, spouses, parents, and children.
Drawing on the author's own experiences, this slim, intimate collection of thirteen stories explores myriad forms of love (and disappointment and nostalgia and panic) through a narrator who bemoans his inability to wear a trench coat well, like Humphrey Bogart and the other elegant men his mother taught him to admire. In these encounters and these endings, in these details and these feelings, a compassionate portrait of a life emerges.
Terse, droll, sometimes absurd but always lucid, Pàmies casts his gaze on the urge to write as seen through his mother's final days; on his teenage fantasy that his father was actually Jorge Semprún; and on situations such as adopting a dog to staunch a failing marriage, or a father asked to play the part of a corpse in his son's short film. In this phantasmagoria of failure and loss, Pàmies confronts us-pulling us in with his use of the second person-with the omnipresence of well-intentioned lies without which it might be impossible to ever make anyone else happy.
Editorial Reviews
"The Art of Wearing a Trench Coat by Sergi Pàmies is a tremendous work of literature. I was charmed by these honest, hilarious, and masterfully crafted short stories. I stayed up late into the night, devouring this slim volume in one sitting. These thirteen stories are searing with insight, offering reflections on love and regret, and an understanding of the human heart that builds throughout the book's pages. My only disappointment is that I hadn't read anything by Pàmies before. I am grateful for this work and for its exquisite translation by Adrian Nathan West." -Kali Fajardo-Anstine, author of Sabrina & Corina, National Book Award Finalist
"In The Art of Wearing a Trench Coat Pàmies elegantly exposes the connection between the personal and the political with an extraordinary mixture of pathos, regret, affection, and bitterness. Loves, ideals, eras are all compromised, adored, lost and then found and lost again in short stories that resonate far beyond the page-one gets the feeling that an entire lifetime of sensitivity and reflection has been compressed into prose as polished and prismatic as a diamond. This is a work deeply engaged with life through both the heart and the mind; a total delight in every dimension." -Maryse Meijer, author of The Seventh Mansion and Rag: Stories
"Sergi Pàmies' exquisite story collection The Art of Wearing a Trench Coat is an experience of the heart and mind. Beautifully translated by Adrian Nathan West, the thirteen stories here render a life in brief glimpses and longer meditations, in ways that feel both comfortingly familiar and startlingly new: Random strangers meet, but what does it mean for them to part? Loved ones die, but what does it mean to truly let go? In a world where we've become more and more isolated, and at a time when human connection feels increasingly less human, Pàmies' stories arrive at the perfect moment. This is a book I didn't know I needed, and I'm so grateful that it's here." -Lysley Tenorio, author of The Son of Good Fortune and Monstress
"Pàmies is honest and profound, but he never abandons lightness and irony, to which he adds a great ability for observation and a particular talent for tenderness." -Letras Libres
"Pàmies's work represents the summit of the contemporary ...
"In The Art of Wearing a Trench Coat Pàmies elegantly exposes the connection between the personal and the political with an extraordinary mixture of pathos, regret, affection, and bitterness. Loves, ideals, eras are all compromised, adored, lost and then found and lost again in short stories that resonate far beyond the page-one gets the feeling that an entire lifetime of sensitivity and reflection has been compressed into prose as polished and prismatic as a diamond. This is a work deeply engaged with life through both the heart and the mind; a total delight in every dimension." -Maryse Meijer, author of The Seventh Mansion and Rag: Stories
"Sergi Pàmies' exquisite story collection The Art of Wearing a Trench Coat is an experience of the heart and mind. Beautifully translated by Adrian Nathan West, the thirteen stories here render a life in brief glimpses and longer meditations, in ways that feel both comfortingly familiar and startlingly new: Random strangers meet, but what does it mean for them to part? Loved ones die, but what does it mean to truly let go? In a world where we've become more and more isolated, and at a time when human connection feels increasingly less human, Pàmies' stories arrive at the perfect moment. This is a book I didn't know I needed, and I'm so grateful that it's here." -Lysley Tenorio, author of The Son of Good Fortune and Monstress
"Pàmies is honest and profound, but he never abandons lightness and irony, to which he adds a great ability for observation and a particular talent for tenderness." -Letras Libres
"Pàmies's work represents the summit of the contemporary ...
Readers Top Reviews
Short Excerpt Teaser
ECLIPSE
We've met next to a hotel pool. As yet there is not a body floating in it. It's the birthday-the fiftieth-of a well-known radio announcer. The nearly two hundred guests were chosen from among family members, friends, and work colleagues. The view overlooks seven miles of beachfront in the form of a crescent moon, a horizon that weaves together all the colors of the dusk, and a procession of airplanes making their way toward the airport in orderly succession. A common friend has introduced us, a woman who insists we'll want to get to know each other. During the two perfunctory kisses on the cheek, each of us detects in the other the same blend of bashfulness and tension. Perhaps because we don't want to disappoint this friend in common, our first look is one of resignation, as if we had agreed wordlessly to put an end to this ordeal as soon as possible. The mutual scrutiny persists until we get in sync. Our friend has left us high and dry. Now it depends on us whether or not the conversation drowns in the pool. We do what we can. You with a deference I'm grateful for. Me with a gracelessness made worse through years of lethargy. We cycle through effervescent questions and answers until my resources run dry and I propose we get a drink from the bar. You order cava, I order wine; I know myself, and I suppress the temptation to come up with some theory as to why. We toast to the honoree, who thanks us and announces that in a few months, he'll be appearing in a play. We don't clap, because we have glasses in our hands, and we ask each other how he will manage to balance these performances with the six hours a day he spends on the radio. "He'll give up sleeping," you conclude, with unqualified common sense. At that instant, I do what I had not dared to do before: instead of hearing you and seeing you, I look and listen. The unease I feel when socializing does not keep me from noticing the harmony between the color of your eyes and the introverted vibrancy of your stare, the attention you seem to pay to your hair and the gentleness in your smile. Our questions are no longer effervescent, and, even though we're talking about work, I have the sense that we're picking up a conversation begun some time back. Differences between a moment ago and now: a moment ago, I didn't mind coming across as a misanthrope, and now I would do anything to avoid it. I calculate that no more than ten minutes have passed since we were introduced, and you've had time to tell me you graduated with a degree in humanities (with a thesis on the function of landscape in the works of Mary Shelley and Edgar Allan Poe) and that you have some kind of business deal in the works. I arrange, in descending order, like the planes making their way to the airport, the questions I would like to ask you. Like a control tower, I register your eyes, which project a series of coded signals I wish I were able to decipher. I take an unusually long sip of wine. A sommelier would detect in it notes of disorientation, an aftertaste of panic, and a hint of citrus: the adrenaline of volatile expectations. I am no longer pretending to have a conversation: I am having one. And this entails listening more than speaking, and not rushing and not asking why you studied humanities or what sense of irony led you to pick Shelley and Poe. But just as I prepare to address you at greater length, to enhance the impression I must be giving, the jubilant host picks the microphone back up and invites us all to continue the party on the twenty-sixth floor of the hotel, at a dance club reserved for the occasion. Immediately, the guests start filing out. A man appears next to you, still of an age and appearance that permit him to call himself young, familiar in the way a brother is rather than a friend, and he encourages-even urges-you to go along with him. Now it hits me that I don't know a thing about you. Do you have children? Are you divorced, too? Did you come alone? I don't even know how old you are, though I'd say you are the kind of person whose looks are a faithful indication of their age. I take a step back and accept, with the good sportsmanship of someone never in the running, that this pro forma ritual is now at an end. We don't say goodbye. I'd like to believe this is because we think the party is informal enough that more comings and goings are in the offing. You walk off with your brother/friend while I say hi to other guests and force myself to analyze our meeting pragmatically: most likely you didn't come alone; most likely you're married. The attendees, many of them couples, are waiting for the elevators to arrive. To go up-ten seconds of supersonic ascent-we were required to put on an orang...
We've met next to a hotel pool. As yet there is not a body floating in it. It's the birthday-the fiftieth-of a well-known radio announcer. The nearly two hundred guests were chosen from among family members, friends, and work colleagues. The view overlooks seven miles of beachfront in the form of a crescent moon, a horizon that weaves together all the colors of the dusk, and a procession of airplanes making their way toward the airport in orderly succession. A common friend has introduced us, a woman who insists we'll want to get to know each other. During the two perfunctory kisses on the cheek, each of us detects in the other the same blend of bashfulness and tension. Perhaps because we don't want to disappoint this friend in common, our first look is one of resignation, as if we had agreed wordlessly to put an end to this ordeal as soon as possible. The mutual scrutiny persists until we get in sync. Our friend has left us high and dry. Now it depends on us whether or not the conversation drowns in the pool. We do what we can. You with a deference I'm grateful for. Me with a gracelessness made worse through years of lethargy. We cycle through effervescent questions and answers until my resources run dry and I propose we get a drink from the bar. You order cava, I order wine; I know myself, and I suppress the temptation to come up with some theory as to why. We toast to the honoree, who thanks us and announces that in a few months, he'll be appearing in a play. We don't clap, because we have glasses in our hands, and we ask each other how he will manage to balance these performances with the six hours a day he spends on the radio. "He'll give up sleeping," you conclude, with unqualified common sense. At that instant, I do what I had not dared to do before: instead of hearing you and seeing you, I look and listen. The unease I feel when socializing does not keep me from noticing the harmony between the color of your eyes and the introverted vibrancy of your stare, the attention you seem to pay to your hair and the gentleness in your smile. Our questions are no longer effervescent, and, even though we're talking about work, I have the sense that we're picking up a conversation begun some time back. Differences between a moment ago and now: a moment ago, I didn't mind coming across as a misanthrope, and now I would do anything to avoid it. I calculate that no more than ten minutes have passed since we were introduced, and you've had time to tell me you graduated with a degree in humanities (with a thesis on the function of landscape in the works of Mary Shelley and Edgar Allan Poe) and that you have some kind of business deal in the works. I arrange, in descending order, like the planes making their way to the airport, the questions I would like to ask you. Like a control tower, I register your eyes, which project a series of coded signals I wish I were able to decipher. I take an unusually long sip of wine. A sommelier would detect in it notes of disorientation, an aftertaste of panic, and a hint of citrus: the adrenaline of volatile expectations. I am no longer pretending to have a conversation: I am having one. And this entails listening more than speaking, and not rushing and not asking why you studied humanities or what sense of irony led you to pick Shelley and Poe. But just as I prepare to address you at greater length, to enhance the impression I must be giving, the jubilant host picks the microphone back up and invites us all to continue the party on the twenty-sixth floor of the hotel, at a dance club reserved for the occasion. Immediately, the guests start filing out. A man appears next to you, still of an age and appearance that permit him to call himself young, familiar in the way a brother is rather than a friend, and he encourages-even urges-you to go along with him. Now it hits me that I don't know a thing about you. Do you have children? Are you divorced, too? Did you come alone? I don't even know how old you are, though I'd say you are the kind of person whose looks are a faithful indication of their age. I take a step back and accept, with the good sportsmanship of someone never in the running, that this pro forma ritual is now at an end. We don't say goodbye. I'd like to believe this is because we think the party is informal enough that more comings and goings are in the offing. You walk off with your brother/friend while I say hi to other guests and force myself to analyze our meeting pragmatically: most likely you didn't come alone; most likely you're married. The attendees, many of them couples, are waiting for the elevators to arrive. To go up-ten seconds of supersonic ascent-we were required to put on an orang...
